Mile Markers #6: Urban Cycling in China; or, Self-Do Vehicle

Cycling in China.

I lug my bags up the escalator and onto the street. The din of the city rushes into my ears, and for the first time in 27 hours, I am standing outside—not in an airport terminal, not in the aisle of a passenger jet, and not on a crowded subway, but on an honest-to-goodness sidewalk beneath a brooding sky.

I unzip one bag and pull down the fabric, revealing the wheels and handlebars inside. I flip back locks and swivel hinges. I dig out the removable pedals and stick them into crank arms.

An older man approaches. He is a sanitation worker, dressed in a uniform and holding a dustpan. He points at my strange machine.

What is it? he asks—or so I assume he asks.

“Zhè shì wǒ de zìxíngchē,” I explain in clumsy Mandarin. This is my bicycle.

Ahhh, he replies. He crouches by the bike and touches the gears, the chain, the tiny saddle. I don’t blame him; it’s unlike any bicycle he’s ever seen, and he probably doubts that I’ve even used the right word to describe it.

He makes a sweeping gesture with his hands.

Ride it? he’s saying.

I’m happy to demonstrate. I haven’t stretched my legs in nearly two days. I make a few adjustments, swing my leg over the top tube, and press down on a pedal. The bike launches forward, down the sidewalk. Passersby pause to look. I make a tight turn, squeeze the brakes, and dismount.

“Ta-da!” I exclaim, a cheesy phrase I would never think to invoke in America.

The man grins and nods. There’s nothing more we can say to each other, no way for me to explain why I’m here and prepping such a strange contraption on a busy street in Beijing. So I bow and say, “Xièxiè,” which is most of the rest of the Mandarin I know. I sling my backpack over my shoulder, pedal down the sidewalk, and call out, “Zàijiàn!”

And the man continues to stand there, watching this odd-looking foreigner ride away.

Cycling in China

Cycling in China: As Good as It Gets

Imagine a place where cycling is absolutely normal; it’s the default transportation for hundreds of millions of people. Bike lanes are ten feet wide and often separated by tree-lined pavement. Imagine that nearly every intersection has its own traffic signal, just for bikes. Imagine the air ringing with as many bike bells as car horns. When you’re thirsty, you can always find a corner store with freezers full of bottled water, and although you resent using so much plastic, marked recycling bins are everywhere. When the liquid runs through your system, a public restroom appears, marked clearly in English, and it’s free to use.

Imagine the drivers are so accustomed to cyclists that they pause to let you cross without a single abusive shout. Imagine cyclists queuing up at every intersection and claiming right-of-way together, forcing drivers to stop with the assertiveness of a Critical Mass rally.

Imagine every sidewalk painted with special rectangles, where cyclists can park their bikes alongside scores of others. Imagine that almost none of these bikes are locked, because ride-share units are so ubiquitous that a stolen machine is practically worthless on the black market. Imagine the pavement is smooth and flat, and ramps access nearly every bridge, over nearly every highway and river. Imagine you can reach your destination almost as quickly on a bike—and sometimes faster—than in a cab or private car.

This is what it’s like cycling in China.

At least for me. And for a few busy weeks, I am loving it.

At one corner, I wait for the signal in a cluster of moped riders. They’re all middle-aged men, who visibly appraise my bike. They talk to each other, pointing at the peculiar frame and gearing, their voices raised over the rumble of engines. They nod to me and approvingly smile. The light turns green, and we riders pour across the boulevard.

Apple Maps guides me down a street, then an alley, then more alleys. The sun fades over rooftops. People walk along, nonplussed by a passing cyclist, even as I carry an overloaded backpack. I pop back onto a commercial road, and there is the security booth I’ve been looking for. I round the traffic arm, fold up my ride, and push through a revolving door, into the lobby of my first hotel.

Cycling in China: Different Spokes for Different Folks

I’ve come to China for so many reasons, and perhaps none of them matter. I’m researching a guidebook. I’m meeting some friends of my father’s. I’m exploring the region where my son was born—two years before we adopted him—scoping out sites and experiences that he might enjoy when he’s old enough to come with me. This mix of business and pleasure requires me to visit several cities in succession, and to move around efficiently. I can’t waste time on charter buses and hired drivers. I also can’t legally rent a car myself, because the government requires a Chinese drivers license, which, of course, almost no tourist has time to earn. At first, this was alarming, because rental cars have become such an automatic expectation when I travel abroad. But it’s also a relief; bullet trains connect all major cities, with departures all through the day. Subway maps are printed in English as well as Mandarin, and stations are a breeze to navigate. When all else fails, taxis are embarrassingly cheap—the equivalent of one dollar for the first three kilometers.

I’m compelled to mention the model I’m riding, because it’s not just any folding bike. I’ve brought my Kwiggle, an eccentric, German-made machine with 12-inch wheels and a bare-bones frame. The Kwiggle is arguably the most compact folding bike in existence, and the top-tube—if you can call it that—swings back and forth, to assist the rider’s movement. It’s a weird-looking bike, like a scooter with a wobbly seat. This Kwiggle has only three gears, and it’s punishing on steep hills; yet every city I’ll visit in Hebei and Shanxi is blessedly flat. No matter where in the world I take my Kwiggle, people stop and stare, and China is no exception. I’m an exhibitionist by nature, and I enjoy the double-takes.

The bike is more than a fun diversion, though. Everything in China is macrocosmic, including city blocks and public parks. Walking from place to place is easy, but it means hours spent on foot, traversing endless stretches of concrete. Chinese citizens are the second-most-active walkers on Earth, according to a 2017 study in Nature; their average of 6,189 steps per day is beaten only by Hong Kong. The bicycle cuts this travel time in quarters, and the repetitive scenery—of high-rise apartment buildings, office towers, and nearly identical stores and banks—quickly scrolls by.

Bike share in China

Cycling in China: What’s Good Enough for Mao

The Pinyin transliteration for bicycle is zìxíngchē, which literally means “self-do vehicle,” or “the vehicle you operate yourself.”

By some estimates, the People’s Republic of China has about 500 million bicycles within its borders, which equals about one per home. In Beijing alone, riders have registered about seven million units, which is like every man, woman, and child in Chicago and Los Angeles registering an individual bicycle.

The first velocipedes arrived in China around 1900 as a plaything for aristocrats. By the 1970s, cycling was the nation’s primary mode of urban transportation; photographs of morning commuters show rivers of riders flowing down wide avenues. Bicycles were efficient and equalizing, two essential ingredients for the Cultural Revolution. For millennia, nobles had been carried around in palanquins, while peasants trod filthy alleys on foot. Now, workers could glide to work on freshly paved roads. For millions, the experience felt modern and dignified, a Great Roll Forward.

That all changed in 1995, when the Jiang Administration started to encourage cyclists to become motorists. After all, it’s hard to convince the world your nation is a superpower when successful Chinese bankers are pedaling to work in the rain, while even low-income Americans could feasibly drive around in air-conditioned minivans. The effects were disastrous: Cities were quickly choked with traffic, and carbon emissions hit record highs.

The government tried to backpedal, but the highways had already been built, and cars remained attractive to aspirational Chinese. The hip solution: bike-share networks, which would enable everyday riders to pick up a bicycle, run some errands, and leave it on the street for someone else. China adopted this concept early, and several startups filled the sidewalks with colorful rentals.

Tragically, companies like Ofo and Mobike couldn’t turn a profit, and the “bicycle wars” ended in financial ruin. Thousands of unused machines were thrown into mountainous “bicycle graveyards.” Western journalists watched this downfall with giddy schadenfreude. Yet another communitarian effort had failed, they mused, like a vehicular WeWork.

Except it hasn’t failed. Ride-share networks are everywhere, and cycling in China remains popular. It’s true, most commuters would prefer something with an engine, and gas-powered scooters outnumber bicycles on any given path. But Chinese cities make it possible to live a full life without an automobile. People don’t have to fork over half their wages just to get around. Motor vehicles are in China what they should be everywhere—luxury items. And when you’re stuck in megacity gridlock, dodging jaywalkers and burning liters of pricey foreign fuel, it may not even feel that luxurious.

Part 2 of Mile Markers in China next week.